If you listen carefully, but don't try too hard, you can hear the entire Rig Veda in the burbs and giggles and farts of a baby. It has no meaning. It's just music. As soon as you impose 'meaning' on the music of creation, the ocean of matter solidifies. You turn the verb of God into a noun. Connections and entanglements become 'things.' Then we no longer hear the song because it is smothered with ideas. The whorl of the whirled congeals like dead blood into a crust of concepts. It becomes intellectual property, the territory of the mind. The sacred chaos of our formless beauty, which is the beauty of each human form just it is, gets divided into races, tribes, nations, group identities rather than unique persons. Then wars begin. But it's going to be all right. Because, eventually, we all die. We return to the loam, dead landlords, fuel for mushrooms. We are fungus again, singing without words, and listening to the stars.
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